


A Disappearing Act Done Poorly

by GingerAndHyde



Category: The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde - Robert Louis Stevenson
Genre: Gen, M/M, Slow burn romance??? Eventual romance??? Don’t know what you’d call it but it’s gonna happen, TW Suicide mention, tw body horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:53:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22410586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingerAndHyde/pseuds/GingerAndHyde
Summary: The only way to mortify curiosity is to satisfy it. What happens if this is taken to heart?(Alt. ending in which Utterson witnesses a transformation- and becomes determined to end this mess. And hopefully help his friend not get arrested for murder. And maybe fall a little bit in love with said friend. Angst because why not, and soft for the same reason.)
Relationships: Edward Hyde/Gabriel John Utterson, Henry Jekyll & Gabriel John Utterson, Henry Jekyll/Gabriel John Utterson, edward Hyde & Gabriel John Utterson
Comments: 28
Kudos: 122





	1. In Which a Discovery is Made- Utterson

**Author's Note:**

> Just a what-if alt ending, because I’m predictable. Starts a few days after the incident at the window. I have no idea where it’s going, so we’re in this together, I guess? I do know that it will be getting soft sometime soon. Narration will alternate irregularly between Utterson and Jekyll/Hyde. And yes, the title is a p!atd lyric, and you get brownie points if you know the song it’s from!
> 
> I have no idea what I’m doing.

The knock was first met with silence. I waited with baited breath, fingertips still lightly brushing the cold metal of the knocker. Just as I considered knocking again, the door was quickly flung open by a very frazzled-looking Poole.  


“Deepest apologies, but the master is not seeing any guests at present,” Poole said, obviously trying to conceal an onslaught of nerves. I shook my head. 

“Something is amiss, I can tell. What troubles you, Poole?” I inquired, leaning casually against the doorframe, making it clear that I was in no hurry to depart. Poole opened his mouth as though about to say something, paused, and beckoned me into the front hall, pressing a finger to his lips.  
  
“I am afraid that the doctor is unwell. He does not wish to see any visitors- no, not even you, he was quite clear on that- so I fear that I will only be able to provide the best explanation that I can before you must leave. He does not even want anyone else inside the house, so I am already toeing a line by allowing you across this threshold,” he whispered, closing the door lightly. He nervously smoothed his salt-and-pepper hair before turning to me. I nodded, silently indicating that he continue.

“He’s been locked up for days now,” Poole began softly, shifting anxiously, “and I am beginning to think...this time may be different. Usually he at least finds the strength to move himself to his cabinet and dissecting theater, so that he may attempt to continue on his work. Not now. He has been in his personal chambers, alone, for the past three days.” 

Something _is_ amiss. I have never known Jekyll to lay idly, even when ill. To seclude himself away from his pet projects is beyond odd, I mused silently.  
  
“Did he take anything into the room with him?” I asked.

“Not personally. He summoned me and requested that a drawer be brought to his chambers and left outside the door- which was locked- for him to retrieve in his own time. The drawer in question is one that he has asked to be removed and transported once before, but I know nothing of its contents.”  
  
“Have you spoken through the door since?” I inquired further. Poole shook his head.  
  
“With all due respect, Mr Utterson, this is no courtroom, and I do not care to be interrogated. However, I will tell you this: though I have not spoken to him, I have heard him.”  
  
“Talking?”  
  
A hesitation. Poole shifted nervously.  
  
“I am concerned for him, Mr Utterson. You know his health has failed him before, and he has become prone to fits of erratic behavior,” he said with a sigh, averting his gaze. “But now I fear the worst. He has been... talking to himself; conducting entire conversations, two-sided debates. Too quietly for me to hear anything but the occasional word or two.”  
  
“That is not so odd,” I supplied. “I have done the same when preparing arguments; it is important to consider all angles of an issue.”  
  
“This is different, I assure you! It is more than simple self-deliberation.” He stopped, casting a fearful glance in the direction of the hallway as though making sure we were not being overheard. “I have also heard...cries. Sobs...and yelps of pain.”

After a second at war with himself, Poole guided me deeper into the house, taking me to the foot of the main stairwell. He drew a deep, shuddering breath.  
  
“Perhaps you ought to see for yourself. The master must not know of your presence. Remain very quiet, if you please.”

We silently crept up the stairs, Poole in the lead. He deftly avoided certain boards, making no sound, as though this were practiced routine. I quietly observed that all windows in the house were shuttered, keeping light- or perhaps prying eyes- from entering. A single lit sconce illuminated the upstairs hallway, throwing our flickering shadows upon the wall. We slowed to a stop outside of the door to Jekyll’s chambers, barely daring to breathe, listening intently. True to Poole’s word, a familiar voice could be heard muttering inside.  
  
“Be quiet!  Be _quiet_!  I cannot  think with this incessant _chatter_ in my head...No...It is pointless. All pointless. I cannot...”, whispered the voice of Henry Jekyll, as fiercely as though he were arguing with another. There was a brief pause. “I have to get out-  _I_ _cannot_!  Don’t you know? We can’t live like this-  _we_ _must_ ...”

So it was true. Hissing nonsense to himself like a madman. I leaned against the door softly, despairingly, and continued to listen to my friend curse at himself on the other side of the wall. 

Suddenly- silence.

“Who’s out there?”, called Jekyll hoarsely. “I requested that I be left undisturbed..!” My breath caught in my throat. Should I reveal myself to him? I gathered myself, straightening up to my full (though rather unimpressive) height.   
  
“Jekyll,” I began, trying to evoke a sense of calm confidence that I was not at all feeling, “It’s Utterson. Gabriel. May I see you?”  
  
“No!...No. I’m terribly sorry, but I am...indisposed.”

I cast a nervous glance at Poole, whose lips were drawn in a tight white line. 

“Shall I leave you alone?”, he whispered. I nodded firmly. Still carrying that nervous energy, Poole retreated down the hall.  
  
“May I at least see your face?”, I asked, “So that I may know you are not too gravely weakened?”  
  
“I intended to remain isolated...”  
  
“I only wish to see you for the briefest of moments. Then I shall leave.”  
  
“You swear it?”  
  
“Of course.”

A rattling of locks on the other side of the door. 

The door swung open barely a crack, allowing me to only see half of the doctor’s face. Pale and haggard, like a man who had lost a great deal of weight in a very short amount of time, Henry Jekyll looked as though he had walked through hell.   
  
“What’s happened to you?”, I cried, taking in his fragile appearance. His drawn, pale face reminded me painfully of how sickly Lanyon had looked before he died only weeks before. I  _could_ _not_ lose Henry also!

Jekyll flinched as through struck. I pushed my way into the room before he could shut the door, overcome with worry. He staggered backwards a few steps.  
  
“You look like you’re on the brink of death!”, I said, rushing towards him. He looked up at me with an expression of terror.  
  
“You’ve seen me. Leave- please.”  
  
“Not when you’re like this!”  
  
He swayed on his feet, leaning against the dresser to support himself, shaking slightly.  
  
“You’re trembling...”, I said softly, putting a hand on his shoulder. He threw it off, staring blankly at his whitened knuckles.  
  
“No,” he whispered- to me? To himself? “Not now. Please not now. Anytime but now.” His shivering intensified, as though he was standing in the middle of a blizzard.

He suddenly turned his head sharply to meet my gaze.  
  
“Gabriel- I beg of you-  leave. Now! ”

Like a man having a fit, he collapsed to the ground before I could even step away, his limbs shaking uncontrollably. Fixed to where I stood, frozen in shock, I could only stare.   
  
What came next was near-indescribable.  
  
Shaking as though in a seizure, he wrapped his arms around his abdomen, gasped like a drowning man, and...changed. I cannot describe or even think of it in its entirety. Only flashes of the terrible sounds of snapping, grinding bones- hair falling out of his scalp and being replaced just as quickly- frothing at the mouth like a rabid animal- seeming to starve and wither before my very eyes...

Pale and shaking, the thin, wiry frame of Edward Hyde lay at my feet. 

Shaking vivid red hair out of his face, Hyde looked up at me with a pair of familiar greyish eyes- Henry’s eyes. 

“I can explain.”


	2. A Truth, and a Chapter Also - Utterson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An explanation. A revelation. A lot of emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst... yay 🎉. Lil note before we start: part of my Jek’s Emotional Package is that he suffers from intrusive thoughts (projection, ngl). I kind of explored this in a one-shot earlier (I only have two of those, so yeah). Hyde’s going to be bringing that up at one point, just to let you know.  
> Good news, folks- I still don’t know what I’m doing!

Hyde picked himself up the ground weakly, still shaking slightly, and adjusted the collar of the clothes that were far too big for him. He did well at feigning calmness.

I did not.

“What the  hell  did I just see?”, I whispered, drowning in the feeling that the earth had just slipped from its axis. Hyde grimaced as he pushed up the bridge of Jekyll’s glasses, which seemed out of place on his wan, almost-ghostly face.

“I suppose you won’t be forgetting it anytime soon,” he muttered in his broken sort of voice. “I never wanted you to know. I tried to tell you to leave...” 

“What...? How...?”, I stammered, completely unable to find the words. 

“If you intend to stay...”, he began, sinking onto the edge of the four-poster, “...you may want to sit down.”

•••

An hour of explanation. An hour spent sitting in a numb sort of silence, listening to him, not giving a word of response. His hands never stopped shaking. At several points in his account, he came close to laughter, tears, or rage. His moods seemed to swing dangerously- his voice whipping violently between a deadly anger and a pitiful, tremulous fear. When he wasn’t looking, I squeezed my eyes shut, praying that this was a nightmare, that the things he said would all vanish like a bad dream come the morning. 

He fell silent after describing his meeting with Lanyon. We sat together, not saying a word, for several minutes. What was there to say?

“I never wanted to bring you into this,” he finally whispered. “I’d rather die knowing you still thought of me as a friend than with the burden of your loathing upon my shoulders.” 

“Die?” I said with a start, finally managing to meet his eyes.  They were grey, just like Henry’s. This  _ was  _ Henry. _What had he done to himself?_

Hyde swallowed. 

“It’s why I’ve locked myself in here. The draught I made at Lanyon’s only restored me to myself for six hours. The next mixture: only five and a half. I’ve been timing them ever since. Sometimes I’ve even had to double or triple the dosage- at the risk of overdose. And I haven’t enough of the salts to make much more. I cannot be seen like this. Not after,” he paused, nearly losing his composure- “Not after what I did to Carew. I’ll be hung the second I step foot outside.” 

“Can’t you send someone out to buy more of the ingredients?”, I asked desperately. Hyde scoffed.

“What did you think I’ve had the servants doing these past few days? The original mixture is the only one that has worked. All the others- useless. Impure, I suppose.” He sighed unsteadily. “I only have enough for five or six days’ worth of transformations. A week, if I’m lucky.” He buried his face in his hands.

Silence. 

“I _can’t live like this_!,” he snarled suddenly, flinging himself to his feet in a fit of starling rage. I recoiled. 

“I can’t just stay locked in this room for the rest of my life! I can’t just stay _alone_! Alone with my thoughts...”, he hissed, seemingly ignoring my presence. He dug pointed fingernails into his scalp, pitching forwards. “But I’m never alone. Even when I’m Jekyll- uncontrollable thoughts, horrible ones... they won’t stop...” His voice was uneven, unsteady, deranged.  _ He’s gone mad. _

“What do you mean? What sort of thoughts?”, I manage softly. He shakes his head as thought trying to clear it.

“I’ve always had them. Always there, at the very edges of my mind. Violent. Disturbing. But they’ve gotten so much worse,” he whispered, sounding on the edge of tears, “I can’t control them. They just... _happen_. And then I can’t stop thinking about them, no matter how hard I try.” He shuddered. “They’re even worse when I’m Jekyll. But when I’m Jekyll, I’ve got to keep up appearances. Tell people little practiced excuses- but never the truth. Got to be the good doctor, the man of society that everyone wants to see.”

I felt like I’d been punched in the chest as the realization flooded over me.

He was never sick. All those times he had left parties early, wearing a sparkling smile and jokingly complaining of feeling under the weather...Years of glancing towards me nervously, asking for me to cover for him while he went into another room to ‘regain his energy’...Staring blankly at steak knives during dinner, freezing unexpectedly before shaking his head and plastering on a false smile...

“I never knew...”

He laughed bitterly.

“That was the goal, wasn’t it?”

I don’t know what to say. 

“The thoughts were part of the reason I made- this,” he said, gesturing to himself, “Part of the reason. I wanted to separate them from Jekyll, to compartmentalize them into a whole new consciousness away from the person the world expected me to be. I also just wanted to have a little fun, just spend a little time running wild, indulging in less-than-savory activities. As it turns out, we’re not as separate as I’d hoped. But being Hyde did help, at first. The thoughts used to just...blend in. Running around as Hyde, I was thinking of enough horrible things willingly, and of my own accord, that they fit right in with the rest. But now that I want  _out_... they won’t leave me.”

He sat back down, wrapping his arms around his starved and sickly-looking frame. He looked so...fragile. Like he could snap in two.

“They’re why I look like this,” he added, noticing my stare. “All twisted up on the inside...all twisted up on the outside.” A weak little smile tugged at his thin face, before falling away to be replaced with an expression of despair. “And soon I’ll be stuck like this. Alone with my thoughts, in this body, in this room. Forever.”

I rose from my seat and sank onto the four-poster beside him.

My friend had pretended to be alright every day, never showing anyone how he was crumbling on the inside. He had turned himself into  _this_ , seeking freedom from societal limitations, expectations, his conscience, and his own thoughts. He had killed a man. He had hidden himself away, waiting to be killed or to lose himself forever- whichever came last. He had lied to so many people, including me, supposedly his closest friend. His sanity was deteriorating, and he had tried his best to keep it a secret. He had driven Lanyon to an early grave by showing him what I had just now seen. He had flipped my world upside down in an hour. He had bared his soul, broken in two, and showed it to me. I would never be able to look at him the same way again. 

Thoughtlessly, I placed a hand on his narrow shoulder.

A chill, as though he were made of ice, spread through my veins. I shivered involuntarily, but I did not draw back. He relaxed under the touch, melting into it. My blood still felt frozen. He smiled slightly, adjusting his glasses before putting his hand on my own. I winced.

“Yes, I’ve noticed that, too. The chill. I believe it has to do with this body being what it is. Dark sides aren’t very soft to the touch, I suppose.” 

For a moment, his voice almost sounded like Henry’s. 


	3. A Plan, and an Escape - J/H

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Utterson decides to take matters into his own hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I still don’t know what I’m doing! I have no outline or structure for this fic at all, so I’m just writing where the wind takes me. 
> 
> Utterson is literally the only thing standing between my gremlin and a mental breakdown.
> 
> This chapter is narrated by j/h, by the way!

He had taken it...surprisingly well. Of course, Utterson was not kind of man to openly show what he was feeling, especially if it hurt others. He was all quiet hints and clues, little pieces one would have to grow familiar with to decipher. For now, none of it showed. He shuddered to touch me, and he flinched when he met my eye, but this was only to be expected while I was what I was. 

I have never been more grateful for a simple touch on the shoulder.

“If you want to leave...”, I began, painfully aware of the way he winced when I spoke, “I would understand completely. I wouldn’t be surprised in the least should you wish to never see me again.” 

“No.”

“What?”

“I’m not leaving you.” His voice was firm and resolute. He pushed himself off the edge of the bed, turning away from me. 

_ _ _Doubtlessly, he’s disgusted. He can’t stand the sight of you_. 

“It may be foolish,” he mused aloud, parting the curtains of the window by the barest fragment to look into the streets below, “but I can’t.” 

“You always have been recklessly loyal. The last good friend many men could claim to have,” I said, shifting uncomfortably on the bed. 

“It will be the death of me one day,” he said with an artificial cheeriness, before silently gazing out the window.

_ What now? _

A toxic fear rose up in my throat like bile.

_ This is what killed Lanyon. The truth is a killer. Lanyon is dead because of you. Only goes to show how dangerous you are. Not to mention the fact that you killed Carew with your own hands; struck him down in the street without second thoughts. You didn’t even feel  remorse until you turned back into Jekyll. How much longer do you have before you become a monster forever?  _

These thoughts had the terrible little habit of being correct. 

_Would you even be able to feel anything if Gabriel was added to your list of casualties?_

Would I?  
  
I’d rather not find out.

“You should leave. I never intended to drag you into this. You ought to go home and try to forget this ever happened,” I managed.

He spun to face me. 

“You know that that’s not an option.”

“It can be.”

“Not after...all this. You cannot expect me to walk out of this room and carry on as though nothing has changed.” He paused. “You need help.”

“This isn’t something that can be helped!”, I snapped, surprised at my own sudden hostility. “It can’t be undone! I cannot change the past! I’ve dug my own grave, now please just leave me to die in it!” 

He was silent.

“This is too much for you to handle. I am why Lanyon is dead. I killed Carew. Don’t stay here and risk being added to that tally. If you had just listened to me- if you had just stayed away and left before I changed-,”

“Do not deflect this onto me,” he said sternly, “And you should know that I am well aware of what you’ve done. This is my choice to make, and I’ve chosen  not to leave you alone in this room to go mad and die, or get captured and hung by the police. I want to help you escape.”

My mouth fell agape in shock.

“But I’m a murderer,” I stammered, “I’m dangerous! And you’re- you’re a  _ lawyer, _for God’s sakes!” 

“You just missed a prime opportunity to crack wise about amoral attorneys,” he said airily. 

“Did you even hear me?,” I cried wildly, “I’m-“

“Dangerous. A monster. A killer with blood on his hands, et cetera. I know. But,” he continued, hesitating slightly to find his words, “I care about you...Jekyll. Perhaps more than is proper, certainly more than I should. Obviously more than is wise. While the rest of London and any man with common sense would want to see you dead, I find that I do not.”

He began to pace the room- a restless habit that we share. His back-and-forth path followed the same worn pattern that my own feet had abraded onto the wood floor.

“I have always been a fellow to follow convention,” he said thoughtfully, half to himself, “but this is not exactly a typical situation, and I fear that my methods may be forced to adapt. ‘Normal’ as we’veknown it has obviously made its exit. As a man wanted for murder, you must follow its lead. Not that I’m condoning your action, mind you- I could not be farther from it. I know of no worse sin. However, I do not want you dead, and therefore, escape is essential. Primarily, we must get you out of this house and away from the prying eyes of your servants and staff- though I’m afraid to say that Poole has already begun to grow suspicious. How long did you say each dosage of the serum lasts, again?”

“You seem remarkably level-headed,” I said wondrously. Though he remained unsmiling, as was typical, a gleam shone in his eyes.

“You forget that you’re not the only bright mind in the room,” he said with a touch of unexpected playfulness. “Now- we have an escape plan to formulate.”

•••

Night had fallen by the time we had devised anything concrete. Gabriel, a pair of reading glasses propped upon the end of his nose, was writing at an incredible speed, recording everything I said as I paced back and forth from the bed to the wall. 

“Of course, leaving the city immediately would be the safest option,” I muttered. Gabriel shook his head.

“You forget that Henry Jekyll is a man of society. A recently rather reclusive, strange, isolated man,” he sighed, “but a known face nonetheless. People would notice if all word of you suddenly vanished-,”

“And the staff would notice if I was missing from my rooms. Which is why I included the clause about my disappearance in my will.”

“The will which leaves a fortune to a wanted murderer. And requires that you remain unseen and reported missing for three months. Somehow I don’t think that aids you in these circumstances.” He ran his fingers nervously over his blond hair, smoothing it down. 

_ He doesn’t deserve to go through this.  _

“If we could convince the public that Henry Jekyll was dead,” I began, “perhaps we could leave the fortune to another false identity. I could resurface under a new name...”

Gabriel made a little sound of dissent, tapping his pen against the desk like a judge with a gavel.

“I hate to say it,” he began, “but you do not exactly...” 

“Exactly  what?”

“...Blend in. To put it bluntly, you are an...atypical-looking individual.”

“Just say that I’m deeply disturbing and be done with it,” I grumbled.

“The point is, you have this- this energy...this impression...Well, you look unspeakably unsettling for a reason other than your visage, and I suspect that this unnamable quality would show itself despite any disguise.” 

I ground my knuckles into my eyes.

_Press deeper, crush them_ -,  hissed a thought. 

_Oh, be quiet_ , I responded with a fury. They retreated, as though hovering at the edges of my consciousness, still threatening to break through. I pressed my knuckles against my forehead in a play of physically pushing the thoughts back. 

“So a reemergence is out of the question,” I sighed. “And, on second consideration, it may be difficult to convince society of my death without a body to show them.”

“So Henry Jekyll shall go missing,” Gabriel said with an official air. “Now what?” 

“Well, we’ve established that I cannot leave the money to a false name, and certainly not to ‘Edward Hyde’. And I would have to remain missing for three months before it could pass on.” 

We fell momentarily quiet.

“I could hide you,” Gabriel offered. 

“ _Where_? I’d be found out in a matter of days!”, I wailed hopelessly. 

“I doubt it,” said Gabriel. “The house of a respected lawyer would be an unlikely place for a murderer to hide. And my staff is smaller than yours- that’s fewer eyes to spot you and fewer mouths to spread secrets. I guarantee we can decide upon some means of concealing you.” 

“For  three _months_?” I tugged at my hair at the roots. 

“What other choice do you have?”, he said, leveling a stern gaze at me. I sighed.

“None,” I muttered. “We can rewrite the will. Leave the money to you, and decide what to do with it later.” 

Gabriel looked at me with surprise. “Me?” 

“There’s no one else I’d leave it to. My family is dead, I never married, and you’re my closest friend. Besides, you could pass some of it on to me when I make my exit from this city. You said it yourself: I cannot show my face here so long as I am like  _ this._” 

He nodded resolutely. “Then it would be best for Henry Jekyll to vanish as promptly as possible, so that we can receive the inheritance money and you can leave as soon as you are able.”

“My thoughts exactly,” I agreed. 

Gabriel say up straight with an air of grandiosity I had not seen since his theatre days. “Tonight will be the last night London sees Dr. Henry Jekyll,” he declared.

“Tonight?”, I exclaimed.

“You change back into Jekyll and then we leave the house- yes,  _ tonight _ \- in plain view of the servants. We go for a brief walk where everyone else about on the streets can see us. Then, we take a hansom to my house and hopefully get you back inside before you change back into Hyde. Tomorrow, Poole or one of the others will send someone to search for you. We make sure they find nothing. They’ll file a report-,”

“And I’ll be gone,” I murmured. “Judging by the pattern of the last several transformations, I’ll have approximately one hour as Jekyll. One and a half at best.”

Gabriel rose to his feet. “So we do this quickly.”

“When shall we depart?” 

“Whenever you’re ready.”

•••

As Gabriel rewrote the fateful document, I mixed the draught with unsteady hands, watching the colors change with anticipation. This would likely be my last hour as Jekyll, before I was permanently-

No. No time for these worries now. Only action.

“I suppose you’d prefer to look away,” I said in a soft growl. “No need to see it twice.”

I drank.

I had grown used to the tearing pain by now. Every day, every night, I had put my body through this torture. I bore the splintering of bones with gritted teeth. The nausea was tolerable. The shaking? Mere inconvenience. I did, however, wish that I could remain on my feet through it all, which was a feat which I had not yet achieved. The wave of blood-chilling terror that accompanied each transformation was my least favorite component- every thought and fear rising into a crescendo, abandoning words, foregoing language to drown me in a senseless hysteria, my heart pounding, head faint, deafening ringing in my ears, black spots swimming in my vision _,_ _ I can’t breathe- _

And then it subsides. The dizziness abates, the nausea recedes, the pain begins to fade away, the fears take shape into words which can be pushed back slightly- just enough to let my own thoughts be heard- and I became myself again. I was restored to my own body, to rationality, to a full set of emotions- things other than fear and rage; soft things like empathy and relief. To a whole soul rather than a fragment of one.

For the last time. 

We left the bedchamber (and the rewritten papers within it) and nodded a goodbye to the servants as we passed. Gabriel carried a coat over his arm, concealing a bundle that held the necessary phials of powders I would need for further transformations. I muttered an excuse about needing the night air to Poole as he opened the door. After he had shut the door firmly against the cold, I turned back to look at it for the briefest of moments. My home? A cage? It no longer mattered. My last moments spent inside it were already things of the past. 

The walk went as planned. Stars made a feeble effort to pierce through London’s ceiling of fog- admirable in their perseverance, though unsuccessful in achieving their anticipated result. My heavy cloak cocooned me against the bite of the early spring chill. As we strolled down the streets, casting flickering shadows in the lamplight, Gabriel stood beside me, just barely farther than I would like. My brain still swarmed with teeming fears and my stomach seemed filled with nerves; I wished he would reach out and touch me again, if only for the weight it somehow removed from my chest. We were obviously at much closer proximity during the hansom ride, side by side in the cramped passenger’s seat. We sat together in silence, both deep in thought- Lord knows we had much to ponder.

My hands started to shake as we climbed out of the hansom. 

“It has almost been an hour,” I whispered to Gabriel. He gave an understanding nod and ushered me up the steps, through the door, and into the fortunately empty parlor without a word, ignoring the bustle of a manservant or maid in a room down the hall. Luckily, we made it up the stairs and into his chambers before the transformation took hold. Gabriel tossed the coat and bundle aside as he guided me into a chair before the shakes could knock me to to the floor, gently taking my hand in his for a moment until the tremors began in their full ferocity. He remained by my side, eyes averted to the ground.

Pain. Nausea. The loud crack and scrape of bones. Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts- my mind is  _ falling apart- I don’t want to do this anymore- _

The transformation reached its end.

I let out a shaky breath, trying not to choke. Gabriel was perfectly silent, eyes still blankly gazing at the wood floor.

Henry Jekyll was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> J/H may not be having a good day (or life, really) but can we appreciate how much Utterson is going to be doing for him? Gabriel is going to have to put up with A Whole Lot, please give him the support he deserves. And a nap. He also deserves a nap.


	4. Nightfall - Utterson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Utterson gets to know his guest a little better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’ve read this far, you know I love angst! However, I also love Soft. And because I write what I wanna, this chapter has both! As I still don’t have a plan for this thing, I’m open to any suggestions or criticisms y’all may have as readers. If I’m a bit heavy-handed with any one element, feel free to let me know!
> 
> I wrote this mostly in one sitting (I usually try to draft and then return to it multiple times over), so I might come back in and edit it if I realize I messed up somewhere, or just to add more (I feel like it may run a little short, but y’all can let me know otherwise).
> 
> Thanks for putting up with me for the past three chapters haha

I stood beside him in silence. What else could I do?

I needed the time to process. To think. My universe was changed- one evening, and the ground seemed to have crumbled beneath my feet. The word  impossible no longer held any meaning. Reality seemed dead. Of course, I put on a brave face for Jekyll’s sake. Or was it Hyde’s? Where was the line between them even drawn? Did it even exist?

  
I became suddenly aware that the hand I was holding had been doused in a dead man’s blood only weeks ago. Swallowing a wave of revulsion, I cast a tentative glance at Hyde. His eyes were tightly shut, his jaw clenched, an expression of lingering pain still across his face. The transformations, three in one evening (and lord knows how many during the day) seemed to have left him weakened. A bead of sweat shone on his pale forehead, and the shakes had not yet fully left him. He barely seemed to be breathing. Even in this frail state, there was still something uncanny and  wrong  about him; something that made me shudder. And yet...

How could someone who had so brutally taken a life look so fragile? 

I tried to reconcile the duality- to come to grips with the unsettling facts. This thing was my friend, or at least one side of him. I couldn’t yet figure how the two were intertwined, if they could even be said to be properly _two_ at all. He was, at least in part, someone I had known and cared deeply about for years. But he was also a killer. Unpredictable, unhinged, deranged, even mad. Yet here he was, curled up like a dog in my armchair, Jekyll’s glasses on his face, the spindly fingers of one hand clasping my own. 

I was sickened by Hyde’s touch.

I wanted to have Jekyll closer.

“Your hand is warm,” he whispered before letting it go. “...Comforting. Though I am loathe to admit it...I needed that.” He forced himself out of the chair, adopting a rough, brusque manner. “Where shall you hide me?”

“I had been considering the attic, or perhaps the wine cellar,” I said, racking my brain for possibilities and solutions to worst-case scenarios. He was very small; he could even lodge himself into a cupboard if the need arose. 

“I forgot you even had a cellar,” he said with a smirk, “What with the way you so often excuse yourself from social drinking nowadays.”

“I try to forget I have it, too,” I joked awkwardly, making an attempt at light-heartedness. “But sometimes when something jogs my memory, well...” 

“Cheers?”

“Exactly.” 

He laughed breathily- not a pleasant sound, but a happy, if somewhat mischievous one. “Well, to the cellar with me, then,” he said, bundling his cloak (now terribly oversized compared to his short frame) around him. 

“Are you cold?” 

“I’ll manage,” he shrugged. I shook my head.

“No. You’ll be staying in here for the night,” I decided, locking the door so that no inquisitive maid could peek in if she were to hear a second voice in the room with me. “Only for tonight, though. I cannot expect to keep you a secret if you’re dashing up here each evening.”

“No need to keep me comfortable,” he muttered, wringing his wrist nervously. “I ought to be in a death row jail cell at the moment, or chained by my neck to a wall in Bethlem. You don’t have to give me special treatment.” 

“It isn’t special treatment, it’s keeping you above ground so that you don’t catch your death in the cold. I’ll give you some heavy quilts for tomorrow night- which you  will be spending hidden- but it’s back to the armchair with you for now,” I said, throwing a spare blanket onto the chair. Wordlessly, he clambered into the armchair and buried himself in it, sighing deeply. 

“I was going to change into my sleeping gown,” I said awkwardly. No verbal response from Hyde, who had cracked open one oversized gray eye.

“I’ll be in the adjoining room,” I muttered, bundling up my things. 

“Your face has gone all pink,” he observed with a crooked smile.

•••

I couldn’t sleep. Neither could he. After several minutes of lying in the dark in silence, I became aware that I was being watched. In the way that one walking in the park seemingly alone may feel eyes upon him, I was suddenly struck by the intuitive feeling that someone was looking at me intently. I moved my head incrementally to see a pair of large gray eyes peering out from the chair in the moonlight. Hyde. 

A chill ran down my spine.  _ Must  _ he be so unsettling?

I sat up straight, squinting through the darkness.

“You’re awake,” he muttered. 

“As are you. Why?” 

“Couldn’t sleep,” he growled, “there’s too much going on inside my head.” 

“Such as?”

“...I’d rather not say.” 

“Come now,” I began, just barely able to distinguish his silhouette in the shadows, “You have no more secrets left to keep, you know.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” He paused. “It’s the thoughts, again.”

“What are they saying?”

He seemed to shrink in on himself. 

“You do realize that if I was going to leave you to this mess I likely would have done so already?”, I said lightly. “Nothing you say now could possibly scare me off, I assure you.”

He fidgeted with the edge of the quilt, thin fingers picking nervously at a loose thread like a woman at a loom.

“I fear,” he began hesitantly, “that I might...lose control around you. Like with Carew.” He fell silent for a moment. “I couldn’t stop hitting him- I wanted to keep going- I  wanted to make him hurt. I didn’t even think about what I was doing, I just...killed him. And I didn’t feel  _ anything _ ...I should have felt something...” he stammered. “And now, the thoughts are- are saying that I’ll- hurt you, somehow. And when it happens...I’ll want to keep going. I’ll want to make you hurt. And I won’t feel anything.”

I was momentarily speechless.

“You aren’t going to hurt me,” I offered. 

“You don’t know that.”

“Henry...”

“That’s not my name,” he hissed with an unexpected ferocity, pounding a fist on the arm of the chair. “Henry Jekyll does not lose control of himself where people can see him, or enjoy hurting people, or kill men in the streets.  _Edward_ _Hyde_ does.”

What does one  _ say _ to that?

He rolled to face away from me with a huff, gazing out the unshuttered window. 

We sat in the darkness, in silence, for what seemed to be forever. 

He sat up abruptly, turning to face me with a jolting motion.

“Do you have any laudanum?”, he asked in a stilted sort of voice.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

I sat up, striking a match and lighting the candle on my bedside table. No point in remaining in the darkness; it was clear that neither of us would be sleeping soon.

“What do you need laudanum for?”, I said, stifling a yawn. “Are you in pain?”

“Of a sort. I take it you have some at hand?” He shifted in agitation.

“In a bureau downstairs.”

He pressed corded fingers against his temples, his eyes wide and unblinking. “I need it.”

“...Is this your way of phrasing a request?” I asked with a sigh.

A nod. 

I shuffled downstairs.

•••

“Fifteen drops in watered-down gin,” I proclaimed in exhaustion, kicking off my slippers and offering the glass to him. He eyed the bottle of the drug in my other hand.

“Not enough.”

“Come now. You don’t seem to be in any sort of agony. How much do you you need?”

“Thirty-five drops. Or forty.”

“ _Forty?_ ” I cried in astonishment. “I can’t even hold twenty-five without going sick to my stomach. One would have to have built up years of tolerance to take that much!”

“Who’s to say I haven’t?”, he growled. “And which one of us has the medical degree, hm? I said forty. I meant forty.” He snatched the bottle from my hand with surprising speed and began to count out drops, lips moving silently, as he poured more of the tincture into the glass. He swallowed it in a few gulps before wordlessly passing me the empty cup and flinging himself back into the armchair.

“How long have you been taking it? Like this, I mean?” I asked tentatively. 

“Seven or eight years in larger volumes. Since college in the amounts that I’veneeded. It’s often the only thing that helps me sleep, nowadays. Though it is not by any means the strongest stuff I’ve played with,” he said, sprawling across the chair. He laughed unpleasantly, a bitter sneer plying across his face. “Allow us to say that the name of Edward Hyde is not a strange one within Limehouse opium dens.” 

“You  _eat_ _opium_?”

“I smoke it. Not frequently, though. I drink poppy tea at home when I can’t go out.”

“I never saw you as the morphomanic personality...”, I said hesitantly. He shrugged, allowing his head to loll backwards.

“Sometimes I need to go numb. Escape...Of course, the euphoria doesn’t hurt, either,” he said with a little chuckle, “And you ought to have realized by now that Henry Jekyll was terribly good at keeping certain aspects of his life behind closed doors.”

He yawned widely, showcasing a maw of jagged teeth. 

“If you would douse the lights...?”, he said, stretching like a housecat.

I extinguished the candle, leaving us in the dark once more. Hyde fell asleep within a matter of minutes, his breathing shallow and barely audible. I remained beside the armchair, adjusting the blanket around his shoulders. The moonlight cast an eerie shadow across half of his face and a sparkling reflection on the glasses he had forgotten to take off. 

So familiar, yet so alien at the same time. 

But how could I ever think of him as familiar? How many other skeletons were lurking in his closet? Did I ever truly know him? 

How much of Henry Jekyll had been a lie? 

These were going to be a strange three months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, Gabriel...so conflicted! If he was more honest with himself, he might admit that his feelings towards Henry had been more than friendly prior to this whole ordeal. Now he’s got to live with a feral little gremlin and sort out his feelings.
> 
> Also, to sort out Utterson’s confusion- Jekyll and Hyde are not a split, and are not “properly two”. Hyde is Jekyll minus half of the emotional spectrum, impulse control, and that “the good doctor” image. Problem is, that image to uphold had eclipsed Jekyll’s actual personality to the point that, were he to drop it, he’d seem like a completely different person. Hope that makes sense, I guess! 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	5. The Cellar, and the Events That Unfolded Within - Utterson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel is not exactly sure what to do or how he feels. Hyde isn’t sure who he is or how to get out of this unfortunate situation. Over the course of several days, the wine cellar plays host to several conversations and conflicts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Bill Hader as Stefon from SNL voice* this chapter has everything: drunk gremlins...repressed feelings...Inspector Newcomen...the sharing a bed trope...a confused Utterson...
> 
> I’m changing some tags, cause times are a-changing
> 
> More angst, because what else were you expecting from me? But also,,,emotions,,,
> 
> Gabriel has no idea what to do, say, or feel, so he’s been pulling a John Mulaney: “I’ll keep all my emotions right here, and then one day, I’ll die.”
> 
> A major plot point for this chapter is a certain letter involved in my version of the Carew murder. If you want to learn more, (shameless self-promo mode, activated) Head over to my one shot, “The Facts of the Matter of the Carew Incident”! (self-promo mode disengaged)
> 
> TW FOR: alcohol abuse, suicide mention/discussion about death (seriously though if any of my stuff triggers you, please please please tell me/ask to tag and Don’t Read It! Your mental health is more important than any of the stupid things I post on here. Stay safe, friendos.)

The cellar plan worked. For _less than_ _ three days. _

The first day passed easily enough; I had outfitted the tiny space with everything to suit his immediate needs and supplied him with a basket of small foods and a jug of water. No bigger than a closet, the little room was unfortunately an uncomfortable sanctuary, dimly lit by a bell-glass lamp I had brought in for the purpose. Hyde requested only paper and ink and something to read; anything would do as long as it was distracting, so I supplied him with my copy of  The Tempest on the logic that he needed something lighter in tone. Jekyll had appreciated Shakespeare as much as the next gentleman, but I had harbored an intense adoration for the Bard’s works in our college days. This particular copy had been mine while I was in an acting and script analysis club and was consequently scribbled in all throughout the margins with little notes on inflections and implied meanings. 

Rather than go up to my room to read after dinner, as I usually did, I furtively stole away down the stairs to the shallow basement and adjoining cellar with a plate of leftover roast. As Hyde requested (or rather, demanded), I also brought with me the bottle of laudanum, slipped snug in my pocket. Despite my lesser-than-average height, even I ran the risk of knocking my head against the ceiling. Candle in hand, I opened the door to the small room.

“I want out.”

Hyde sat cross-legged on the floor, staring up at me resolutely. 

“Only one day and you’re sick of it already?”, I said lightly as I passed him the food. He dug into it voraciously. 

“It’s too small- too cramped- I can barely breathe in here,” he muttered through a half-full mouth. “Can I at least have the entire basement?” 

“Not during the day. The staff keep much of their supplies in the cupboards down here; you’d be spotted. But perhaps at night,” I supplied, leaning awkwardly against the wall while trying not to knock my head into the ceiling. Hyde huffed before falling silent.

“Could you come by in the daytime?”, he asked suddenly. “I know you’re busy and all. But...just come down for a few minutes.”

“Why?”

“I am...not very fond of being alone.” He shifted where he sat, running a finger around the rim of the now-empty plate. 

“Just yesterday you were planning on locking yourself into your room for all eternity.”

“That was when I thought I had no other options.” He paused. “It was more of a plan to wait. I did not intend to live alone for long.”

“What do you mean?”, I asked, perplexed. Hyde avoided my eyes, instead pouring water from the jug into a cup and beckoning for the laudanum bottle, which I passed to him rather reluctantly.

“Never mind,” he said, counting out drops. “By the by, could you bring me a paper tomorrow? I would like to know what’s going on in the town.”

And so the first night passed. 

•••

I visited him at noon on the second day. I never scheduled lunch obligations on Thursdays, not even with Mr. Guest, so I simply ducked away from the table and told the staff that I was to be hard at work and wished to be alone. 

Alongside a few finger sandwiches left from lunch, I brought with me a copy of today’s  _ Gazette _ as he had requested. 

Down the stairs, through the basement, and to the cellar door, again. 

I opened the door and was met by a very relieved-looking Hyde, who had been sitting with his head in his hands on an overturned crate in the cramped corner.

“You came,” he said, visibly relaxing. 

“Of course. You asked me to.” 

He took the food and the paper from me with a little nod, and we sat quietly as he read and ate. He seemed to wish for simple company rather than conversation.

”Jekyll’s been reported missing; Poole must’ve put it up to the police. There’s a little advert about it,” he commented, pointing out a little four-paragraph column about the disappearance. “...This might actually work.”

“It also means that the police will likely be coming around here,” I reminded him, “as I was the last person you were seen with last night. Not to mention that we didn’t exactly leave under normal circumstances, what with you having locked yourself up. They might consider that suspicious.”

“Let them,” he shrugged. “I’ll stay down here if they come about. It’s not even like they’d be looking for me- that is,  _ Hyde_\- it’s far more likely that they’d strike up a little conversation with you and be on their way.” He chewed on a sandwich pensively. “They aren’t exactly the most diligent at their job. They’d scoured all of London for me after the... _i_ _ncident_... and never even thought to interrogate Jekyll despite all evidence that they should. And it would take nothing short of a miracle to restore Henry Jekyll to society for any more than a handful of hours.”

“May I ask,” I began tentatively, “why do you refer to yourself- well, Jekyll- in the third person?” 

He scowled darkly, sending a cold shiver through my bones.

“Because I am  _ not  _ Jekyll,” he growled. Something in his tone seemed to indicate that he was attempting to convince himself as well as me. “I cannot bring myself to think of us as truly one.”

“But where does the difference lay between you? Besides appearances, and the disparity in empathy that you had told me of...”

“Can you let it go?”, he snapped, rising from his seat on the crate.

“I was just wondering-“

“Wonder something else, then!” A hot flush had risen to tint his pale, snarling face. For just a moment, some deep, innate urge to run sprang up in my chest. Barely realizing what I was doing, I backed towards the door. 

“You might want to leave,” he mumbled; it seemed to be more of a warning than a suggestion. I nodded, fumbling for the knob. He sank back down onto the crate.

I left the cellar and resumed my day. 

••• 

At 4 o’clock, a somewhat familiar policeman came knocking at my door. 

“Inspector Newcomen!” I exclaimed in shock. “I- well, I thought you were on the Carew case...!” He pursed his lips grimly.

“I was,” he began, adjusting the black cap atop his graying, dark hair. “That is, until I was put off it. Reassigned. They put Inspector Berkeley on the job; not that that’s any help. That Hyde fellow’s trail has truly gone cold. There’s no sign of him anywhere, no tip-offs, nothing.”

“I thought you had found a letter,” I stammered, “on the body, that is. Addressed to me...”

“We had. The higher-ups told us not to open it, so we sent it to the examiners. At least, we thought we did.” He paused, shaking his head. “Never mind. May I come in? I’m afraid I have to speak with you about a rather serious matter.” 

I opened the door wider, ushering him inwards. He turned towards me sharply. 

“As I’m sure you have read in the papers, Dr. Henry Jekyll has gone missing,” he said, with only the barest hint of anything other than a business attitude coloring his tone. “You were the last person to be seen with him. Can you give me an approximate timeline of what happened?” He briskly extracted a little journal from his pocket along with the stub of a pencil.

I took a breath. This was all expected. I was prepared, though this did little to dissipate my gathering nerves.

“At around 10:30, Dr. Jekyll and I left his house by foot. We strolled down the street together until about 11:05. At that point, we went our separate ways. I summoned a hansom to return home;Jekyll said that he’d rather walk. That was the last I had seen him.”I recited this practiced tale with relative ease. Inspector Newcomen nodded, scribbling down the story onto the notepad.

“What frame of mind did he seem to be in?”

“Somewhat agitated.” I hesitated, my thoughts flickering to Hyde, who remained alone in the cellar. “As you may have heard if you’ve been asking anyone else, he hasn’t been well lately. Perhaps that explains it.” 

“Did he say where he was going?”

“He said he’d be on his way home. But he might have chosen to go by a different way.”

“Were the roads well-lit?”

“Yes. All the lamps were burning strongly, though the weather has been rather windy lately.” 

And so we continued for just over half an hour, relocating to the sitting room in the course of our conversation.

Eventually, Newcomen paused. He glanced about the sitting room in what would be a conspiratorial way if he were not so professional in bearing. 

“My final queries pertain to that aforementioned letter,” he said finally, leaning forwards in his chair. “Did you, or did you not, demand for it to be brought to you for your own purposes?”

I started slightly, brows furrowing.

“No. I did not.” 

“Well,” said Newcomen with a huff, “This adds a new aspect to things.”

“Whatever do you mean?”, I asked, baffled. Newcomen again cut his eyes from side to side.

“I really ought to keep this confidential,” he said quietly, “but this case only seems to grow stranger and stranger. The letter- the very letter discovered on the body of that unfortunate Sir Danvers, and addressed to you in his own hand- was sent to the offices for analysis and filing as evidence. Apparently, some idiot clerk did not file it away immediately nor pass it on to its intended recipient at Scotland Yard. Rather, he kept it around a tad longer than he ought to have, and one day, merely three days after the murder, a young man came in to the office and asked for the letter in question. The imbecilic clerk gave it to him. When asked why, he supplied that the boy was sent by you, and that the letter contained critical personal information and only needed a moment’s glance. No excuse for evidence to be  _ taken from the hands of the law,_” he fumed, flushing deeply, “but I digress. Did you send that boy?”

“No,” I said, shocked at this odd new development.

“Then I take it you didn’t receive the letter?” Newcomen’s face was again grimly professional. I shook my head.

“I’m afraid its contents remain a mystery to me,” I admitted, feeling the old beast of curiosity raise its head. “Do you know what the message said?”

“We haven’t a clue. Besides that Hyde fellow’s disappearance, this letter is the biggest hurdle the lads on the Carew case have to jump. On top of that, the connections between Hyde and the missing doctor add a suspicious light to this whole affair about the disappearance,” he said with a little nod, “But I swear that we aren’t about to these obstacles stand in the way of these cases.” He rose from his chair to tower above me. “Never hesitate to tell me if you hear anything new. We need all the information we can get,” he continued as he swept into the front hall, pocketing the little journal and nub. “Good afternoon, Mr. Utterson. I hope that we will unravel the case of your friend’s disappearance soon, for both his sake and yours.”

•••

After dinner, I returned to the cellar yet again with food. And laudanum. 

Hyde seemed to have calmed down some. He was very quiet, not saying anything until he had finished the plate of chicken and begun nibbling at one of the bones like a street dog.

“What did the coppers say?”, he asked, chewing at it nervously.

“Copper, singular,” I corrected. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d relax.”

“I’m calm,” he lied, gnawing alternately at the bone and one of his own fingernails.

“He mentioned something rather interesting,” I began calmly, sitting down on an overturned bucket. “A letter. The letter found on-,” I paused.  The man you killed?  It struck me yet again that the person before me was a murderer. Funny how that can slip one’s mind momentarily. “Found on the body of Carew,” I continued. “It was never opened by the police, nor delivered to me. Apparently, a clerk passed it on to a young man who claimed to be receiving it in my name.”

Hyde winced.

“Jekyll,” he muttered, “He had sent a young manservant to collect it.”

“Why?”, I asked. He let the bone fall onto the plate with a clatter. 

“The letter was about all...this,” he explained, gesturing to himself. “Carew found out. He knew. He saw me change from Jekyll into Hyde one day and...” He stopped, swallowing nervously. “And he wrote the letter to tell you. Didn’t want you ‘breaking bread with a madman’, as he put it. Not that any of that stopped you.” He laughed nervously: a tittering, unhinged sound that again sent an involuntary shiver down my spine. 

“So you killed him because he knew?”, I asked, aghast. 

“No!” Hyde said defensively. “That’s not why. He said things...to me...called me mad,” he muttered, voice shaking, “And I...snapped. I was seeing red. Wanted to  hurt him...and...” He trailed off. I was gripped with a nausea; a revulsion directed at the person sitting before me.

“So you sent a boy to fetch the letter so the police wouldn’t read it.”

“ _J_ _ekyll_ did. He obviously didn’t want to be caught, and he didn’t want you to know. He thought you’d hate us.”

“There’s the third-person perspective again,” I observed. “Why do you refer to yourself as ‘us’?” 

“Because it would be impossible for us to be one,” he growled, shaking out his red hair. “I’ve told you. The Henry Jekyll you knew would never do the things I do. He wouldn’t want you to remember him like this. Like me.”

“You speak as though he’s not only a separate person, but  _ dead_.” 

“He might as well be.” Hyde tore nervously at his cuticles, drawing a little blood at his thumb. “Though I wish it wasn’t so.”

I sighed, somewhat frustrated.

“Could you please explain how you’re different people?,” I asked, attempting to keep my tone soft. He averted his gaze, glancing at one of the bottles on the wall.

“I am violent and angry and hateful. I don’t feel things the same way Jekyll did. I was made to be a dark side, and so I am one.” His tone was uncharacteristically flat, as though he was reciting a script he had read to himself a hundred times over. “Jekyll always felt awful about what I did after the fact. He was afraid of the things I did and what I could do. He didn’t want me to hurt the people closest to him, but mostly, he didn’t want my actions to catch up to him. He wanted to escape it all.” He removed a bottle from the shelf, running his still-bleeding thumb across the dark glass as he held the vessel in his lap. “He wanted to escape his head, his life, his shame, what everyone else thought...All of it. He wanted to let me loose to have my fun and do whatever I wanted so that he wouldn’t want it anymore, wouldn’t have any bad thoughts, and wouldn’t feel like he was anything other than the perfect doctor everyone else expected to see.”

“But it didn’t work,” I said quietly. “Do you know how I know?” He didn’t respond, still holding the bottle like a cherished thing. “Because when you describe him, you’re describing yourself. You’re still scared of what’s in your head, though it may have been easier when you first started the transformations. You’re still scared of hurting me, at least somewhat. You’re still scared of losing control. And you’re still scared of what I’ll think about you. Jekyll, that is. Because, no matter what you tell yourself, you’re one and the same.”

He looked up at me from beneath curtains of tangled hair.

“I wanted you to remember the part of me that was good,” he whispered in a cracking voice. “You can hate who I am now. You  _ should,_ honestly. But I just want a little bit of your memory to be of someone you don’t have to lay blame on, or wish you had never met, or...” He stopped, attempting to regain some steel in his face and voice. “Hate Hyde all you want. I don’t care.”

“I can’t hate one and not the other, not when there is no true ‘other’,” I said, leaning in closer. “To be truthful, I still don’t know how to feel. You are someone I...” My voice stopped working momentarily. “I...care deeply about. But you’ve done awful things, and you admit it. They can’t be excused, and I don’t think they could be  forgiven in the classic sense of the term. I don’t know what to think.”

“Nor I,” he admitted. “Perhaps...we ought to try not to think for a little while.” He gave the bottle a little shake, cracking a tiny smile. “Have you a corkscrew and some wineglasses?” 

•••

We spent the small hours of the night in the basement trying our best not to think. We made a good effort at draining the bottle, sitting in an old pair of mismatched chairs in the dark together. I brought the bell-lamp into the drafty main room of the basement, giving us enough light to pour by and see each other’s faces. Conversation was not as heavy as it had been in the little cellar; we actually hit upon several more lighthearted topics that produced a few laughs.

Under the sway of the wine and conversation, he finally relaxed somewhat. The tension vanished from his face and shoulders, replaced by a sort of ease that I had not seen from Hyde without the influence of laudanum and certainly not from Jekyll in years. The oil in the lamp fell in tandem with the amount of liquid in the bottle. 

“And now it is revealed that Gabriel Utterson can, in fact, hold his drink after so many years gone dry,” Hyde said teasingly as I filled my glass.

“Dry? Says whom?”, I responded in a similar tone. “I may have abstained from vintages, but that hasn’t prevented gin from keeping me company.” Hyde laughed, feigning at being scandalized.

“So you have bad habits of your own, then,” he said, strangely unslurred despite the considerable volume of wine he’d consumed. The amount he drank ought to have taken a man his size down quite a while ago, but I didn’t suppose there was any rule that an artificially-created body had to bend to typical rules. “Of course, it’s not exactly opium eating, but you’re not without devils, hm?”

“It seems I’m not,” I said. “We all have shadows, I suppose. It just so happens that mine lay at their darkest in matters other than violence and drugs.”

“Such as?” Hyde grinned mischievously (still a viscerally unpleasant expression, but a genuine one; though it was somewhat strange to see after days of scowls and snarls). 

“I’d rather not say,” I managed, swatting at the air.

“Come now,” he responded, inching his chair closer, “I have shared practically every secret I have with you. Whatever it is, it can’t be that awful.” 

He has no idea, I thought to myself. 

“I assure you, you don’t want to hear it.”

“Oh, but I do.” His smile widened, familiar gray eyes aglow. Interestedly, I found that the chill of revulsion was less severe when I focused on his eyes. Henry’s eyes. 

I could sit right here and look at Henry’s eyes for hours, I thought. All lit up silver in the lamplight. 

“You can tell me,” he said, an eager curiosity in his voice. “You could tell me anything, you know.”

“I...”

He leaned forwards, glittering eyes still unblinking.

I could tell him anything. I could tell him the truth of what my darkest shadow was. An improper sort of emotion; something I have tried my hardest to ignore and dampen down. But this would involve admitting it to myself...putting part of the true reason why I had sheltered him out into the open air...

A feeling that I had always been told no man should ever harbor for another.

“Hyde...Well, I...”

The words stuck in my throat. I shook my head, attempting to clear it of the fog brought on by the alcohol. 

“Never you mind.” I sat up, rubbing the bags developing under my eyes and slogging my way through clouded thoughts in a desperate attempt to find a new topic. “Well, in encouraging news, Newcomen says that your trail has officially gone cold. They can’t find a thing anywhere.” His grin faded. Evidently, he had actually been hoping to hear what I had to say. He wouldn’t be nearly so curious if he had the slightest idea of its nature, I thought. 

“Well, I did spend two months as Jekyll, which ought to have thrown them off,” he said, “And I never let anyone learn enough about me to give the authorities any clue as to my whereabouts, should something go awry. Especially not the servants. To them, Hyde was a known face, but one with no real story to tell.” 

I wondered if that had been the case with the boy who retrieved the letter. Had he known that the envelope had been discovered on a murdered man’s body?

“By the by, whatever happened to that letter? You never did tell me what you did with it.” 

This did not incite any response that I would have expected.

Hyde went pale- well, paler-  down to the very lips. He whispered a shocked curse.

“It’s still in my dresser!”, he exclaimed with horror. “What if someone finds it?” He rose from his seat, tripping slightly and coming dangerously close to knocking over the lamp at our feet. “We’ve got to get it, got to find it, we can’t let anyone see!” He stumbled in the direction of the door. I forced myself to my feet, leaping to restrain him. That tense, fearful energy had returned to his expression and motion as he hurled himself towards the door like a nervous animal. I caught him by the wrist, ignoring the cold shudder that always accompanied his touch. 

“Hyde!”, I cried out, “Henry! Calm down!”He wrenched his arm from my grasp. 

“You don’t understand! I have to get it out of there!”, he shrieked, loud enough for me to fear that the household would awaken and dart downstairs to investigate. “The police will doubtlessly search my chambers, they’ll find it, they’ll find it and they’ll catch me and I’ll be hung or locked up or-“ He gasped out each word in a panic, clapping his hands against his head as though trying to hold his skull together. “I’ve got to go get it, I’ve got to burn it, no one can see, no one...” He staggered away a few steps, digging his nails into his scalp, before flinging himself at the door with the honest attempt to run upstairs and out into the night.

I seized him by the shoulders desperately. “Henry,  _no_ ,  you’ll be seen! I can go get it tomorrow-“

I was suddenly flung to the floor. Hyde had whirled about, tearing me off of him in the way that a frightened animal might claw at a person attempting to pick it up. I cried out as I hit the ground, the palms of my hands scraped raw by the stone floor. Hyde froze, silent except for his unsteady, panting breaths. He stared at me with wide, fixed eyes. I remained on the ground for the briefest moment, gazing down at my bloodied hands and then up at him with shock. I picked myself off the ground as quickly as I could, ready to make another effort to keep him from mindlessly fleeing, but he was still. 

“Can we get it tomorrow?” I repeated, phrasing it as a question this time. “I’ll retrieve it first thing in the morning, I promise. Let’s get it in the morning. Please.” 

He was silent. 

“It’s in my bedchamber dresser, third drawer down, in a false bottom,” he stated, running a hand through his hair. I nodded my understanding. 

“Don’t visit me in the daytime tomorrow,” he muttered. He then turned around, walked into the darkened cellar with no care for the lamp, and shut the door behind him. 

And so the second night passed.

•••

The next morning, I set off for Jekyll’s house immediately after breakfast, fending off a pounding headache. I considered bringing food down to Hyde whether he liked it or not, but it only took a memory of the dark look on his face the night before to stop me.

The knock on the door was met with silence. 

Just when I considered knocking again, the door was opened by a gruff-looking policeman.

“Come by for a little tour, hm?” 

“No sir,” I stammered, “I am- er, I was- a friend of the doctor.”

“So you’ve heard about his disappearance, I suppose.” The officer stepped out of the house, closing the door behind him. 

“I was hoping to look around and see if there were any hints as to where he’d gone,” I lied, feeling a blush rising up my neck. For a moment, I feared that he could read the falsity in my voice.

“I hope you know that’s our job,” he grumbled. “Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll hear if we find something. The papers are beginning to get all heated about the disappearance. It gives ‘em something to talk about other than the Carew case and whatever the Queen’s been up to.” 

“Are you certain there is no way that I could...” My mouth went dry. If what Hyde had said was true, I  had to destroy that letter before the police found it.

He gestured out to the street with a vaguely pointing hand. “You can be on your way, then. Our boys are hard at work inside.” 

I nodded a thanks and turned away, the gears of thoughts a-whirling in my aching head. 

According to Hyde, the letter contained the details of his true identity. But then again, he had never actually read it, instead opting to...leave it on the corpse. It still felt odd and unnatural thinking of my Henry as a murderer. I found myself referring to him alternately as both “Jekyll” and “Hyde” in my thoughts, the boundaries between the identities swirling together and blending into one very contradictory being. The moment I had first seen Hyde, I had been certain that I hated him. But Jekyll...

What I felt for him could not be farther from hate.

The only word I could think to use would be far too strong to cross my mind, let alone my lips, though it had come so close the night before. 

I pressed a palm against my forehead in an attempt to quell both my headache and halt this thought where it stood. 

•••

I descended into the basement that night with a plate of ham and a dreadful sinking feeling in my stomach. What would he say about the letter? Worse, what would he do? Perhaps he’d make an attempt to escape and seize it by force. I had to be ready to restrain him should he try to do so.

I knocked gently on the cellar door.

The knock was met with silence. This stuck me as being a scenario entirely too reminiscent of the visit to Jekyll’s room that had set this strange turn of events into motion.

This time, however, the door was unlocked. I opened it slowly.

Hyde was sprawled across the floor, a bottle in hand, drunk out of his mind. He made a weak effort to sit up, groaning and shielding his face with his free hand. I set the plate of cold ham on the floor before rushing over to him, crouching beside him on the floor.

“Hyde, what did you  _do_?”

“I found the corkscrew you left,” he muttered, wobbling where he sat. 

“ _ Why _ ?” I sighed in exasperation.

“Thoughts got bad again...and you took the laudanum with ye....” He slurred slightly, a vast difference from his surprising coherence the night before. 

“How much did you drink?”, I asked, astounded, taking the empty bottle from him. 

“Probably too much.” He pitched forwards, clinging to my arm. “Can I jus’...hold on right here...?”

“Let’s sit you up,” I said with a grunt, helping to move him up against the wall. Leaning against the shelves, he did not release his grip on my sleeve but rather tugged me forwards to sit beside him. His head lolled, rolling to rest against my shoulder. I shuddered, but only slightly.

“I couldn’t get to the letter,” I said softly. He made a little choking sound and swatted at the air as though slapping at a face only he could see.

“Damned Carew...dammed letter...”, he growled, rubbing a knuckle against one eyelid. “He was going ta tell you...tell you I’d gone mad...” He looked up at me, his grey eyes gone bloodshot and watery.“I had, though, hadn’t I?...I’ve never been all there, I don’t think...I was just really good at hiding it...”

“You didn’t have to,” I said softly, brushing a wayward lock of hair out of his face. Just focus on his eyes, I thought to myself, and the rest of his face isn’t all that bad. “You could have told me. About the thoughts, about your secrets, about what you wanted.”

“Could I?” He cocked his head like a curious dog. “...How come you wouldn’t tell me about your own secrets las’ night?”

“That’s different,” I said, glancing away. He snorted a laugh.

“I killed a man, and you still somehow think you’ve got somethin’ worse,” he mumbled.

“It’s not worse, per se, it’s just...” I shook my head. “It’s personal. I’m sorry.”

We sat very quietly for several minutes as Hyde felt at my shirtsleeve, rubbing the fabric between his spindly fingers in a sort of trance before slumping against me. I swallowed a wave of nerves. He was very close. 

“I don’t wanna be locked up,” he said suddenly. “When they find the letter, I might just rather be hung...but I don’t wanta die, either.”

“We don’t know that they’ll find the letter for certain,” I supplied nervously.

“I don’t wanta die,” he repeated, more fiercely this time, “If there’s one good thing to say about being Hyde, it’s that I don’t wanta die anymore.”

“Anymore?” 

He nodded. 

“I don’t know why there’s the difference. But I seriously considered it...before you barged in a few days ago, that is...” He shook his head slowly. “I could never do it, though. Always transformed before I got the chance. Besides, I’m too much of a coward.”

“It’s not cowardly to stay alive,” I said, unable to say much else. His corded little hands curled into fists.

“I used to think about it a lot, actually. Even before the transformations...it scared me. I didn’t really  _ want _ to...” He pressed his fists against his eyes. “I hate my brain. I really do. O’ course, my natural base instincts and...desires...aren’t much better.”

I gently pulled one of his hands away from his face. 

He reached out with the free hand for the empty bottle I had taken from him, now lying on its side on the floor. 

“Why couldn’t the separation have _worked_?”, he said, a spiteful hiss creeping into his voice. “Why am I still...me? Selfish, angry, sinful...” His face contorted into a snarl as his fingers wrapped around the bottle tightly, as though he were throttling someone by the neck. “Why couldn’t I be what they  _ wanted?_” His voice crescendoed as he hurled the empty bottle against the floor with a deafening crash before I could even react. Green glass shattered across the floor, clattering through the room. 

Hyde flicked one piece of broken glass, sending it skittering among the rest, before burying his head in his arms.

“Stand up,” I said, carefully keeping my tone even and gentle despite the considerable effort that that took. Hyde looked up at me. 

“Where’re we going?”

I sighed.

“Well, there’s no way you can sleep amongst all this,” I said, rising and kicking at a larger fragment of glass with my toe, “and I’m not certain whether leaving you alone- especially around more alcohol- is the best idea. So I suppose we’ve got no other option,” I grunted as I helped him to his feet. “Back to my room.”

•••

He clambered into my bed before I could even begin to gather my things to change into my sleeping clothes. 

“C’mon,” he called, rolling onto his side. “It’s not like I take up much room.”

Surely he doesn’t mean...

“I don’t know if I’d be comfortable,” I said awkwardly, feeling a blush rise into my face.

“Sure ye will.” 

I panicked inwardly. 

“Perhaps you’d prefer the armchair?” 

“Nae.” He yawned widely. “Course, if you’d rather sleep in the chair, ‘ere’s nothing wrong with that.”

After several seconds of considerable emotional confusion and general distress,I climbed in after him, neglecting to even change out of my day clothes.

I slipped into sleep very quickly afterwards, my eyes affixed to the bundle on my dresser: a parcel containing the dwindling supplies of ingredients that could allow for brief transformations of Hyde to Jekyll, who would then change back to Hyde. My thoughts swam about in my growing stupor. Who was he, really? Was Jekyll an illusion, and Hyde the uncomfortable truth?

Whoever he was, he was right beside me.

And so the third night passed.

•••

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that was a longer chapter than usual, and it contained quite a bit. Sorry for the weird unintentional hiatus I was on for the pst few weeks!
> 
> Again, if any of this was upsetting in any way: TELL ME & ask to tag!


	6. The Attic - J/H

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A relocation to the attic unearths some old memories as bad news comes to call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *John Mulaney voice* And I said I’d try to update every two weeks. You know, like a liar.
> 
> I am honestly so sorry about that! Papers and The Plague are an awful combination in terms of getting fics written. Hopefully I’ll be able to settle into a more regular schedule in the coming months, but for now, I make no promises.
> 
> There’s also the fact that I’ve been doubting my writing capabilities and the actual value of this story as a whole, so there’s that. But that may just be the low self-esteem talking. Also I wrote most of this chapter over the course of several sleepless nights (hello, insomnia), so I cannot testify as to its quality.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this story (as most writers do), but if you are unhappy with the developments or characters, just pop me a review. I have no beta reader for anything, so y’all are the closest I can come to a legitimate review of my content and style. Share what you think!
> 
> Enough of my rambling. On with the show.

I only remember glimpses and snatches of that night: the news about the letter, the broken bottle, a steady hand on my shoulder guiding me up the stairs.

The morning was much clearer.

When I awoke, a pounding headache throbbing in my skull, I was alone in the bed. Dim sunlight filtered through the curtains. My glasses were sitting crooked on my face, bent awkwardly at the bridge. I sat up haphazardly, blood rushing into my head.

“Good morning.” 

Gabriel sat in the armchair, fully dressed for the day, dark circles under his eyes. His hair, which was ordinarily perfectly-combed, had instead been left disheveled and fell about his face naturally, little grey streaks seeming more pronounced in its disorder. 

“You look a mess,” I grumbled. 

“Look who’s speaking,” he said in a tone that suggested a smile, though his face remained as calmly neutral as always. “And I am only a bit tired. You weren’t exactly the easiest to manage last night.” 

“I figured. Smashed a bottle and all, didn’t I?” 

“Yes, you did. I got up early to clean up the mess; didn’t want any of the staff to find it and get suspicious, you know.” 

“How’d I get in here?”, I wondered aloud, pressing a palm to my aching forehead. 

“Well, I helped you up the stairs, and-“

“I mean, how’d I get in your bed?”

He blushed.

“You sort of...annexed it. Settled in on your own accord.”

“And where’d you sleep?”, I inquired further. He cleared his throat nervously.

“In bed.” 

Two and two put themselves together with a surprising speed for a brain that had been waterlogged with alcohol hours before. 

In bed. This bed. Together. 

I screamed internally.

“I didn’t- do anything rash or- or foolish, did I?” God forbid. In my inebriated state, I could have-

“Oh, no,” Gabriel interrupted, “You didn’t engage in any drunken shenanigans, if that’s what you’re wondering. You had just asked me to stay. In the bed. So I did.” He flushed a deeper shade. He was obviously disgruntled and disturbed. Who wouldn’t be? I had obviously made a blithering fool of myself last night, toeing the lines of decency between friends such as we. 

_ Friends, hm? _

Now is not the time for senseless worries!

_ Friends don’t invite friends into the same bed.  _

They do if they’re intoxicated and in need of comfort.

_Comfort. Provided by close physical proximity. Isn’t it possible that that wine simply loosened a few boundaries you’ve placed on yourself? You always did say you could let your true self show as Hyde, but you didn’t, not really. You engaged in some sin and scandal, yes. But Hyde was always merely a second mask to be worn, a new character to play- one with a lacking moral code and with a deficit in empathy, it’s true, but never an honest one._

No. I hid nothing as Hyde, I was wearing my-

_Twisted insides on the outside, yes, yes, yes. And yet you never told Gabriel the truth and you only crawled to Lanyon out of desperation. Flinched at the touch of people you would rather embrace. You used Hyde as an opportunity to show the world suppressed rage and fear, to thwart boundaries set by society, and to take risks that the good doctor could never be seen to attempt. And_ _yet_...

And yet I continued to push parts of myself aside. Parts that deserved to be pushed!

_ Says whom? _

Says me.

_ Says the part of you that still wants to be remembered as the good doctor. Says  _ that  _ you. _

Good God, how I hate my internal monologues. They present arguments that are entirely too convincing.

“Well, I suppose my drunken self would like to thank you,” I said, forcefully snapping myself back to the present.

“And my sober, exhausted self would like to accept your thanks,” he said, rising from the chair. “One thing is for certain, however. You cannot return to the cellar; we cannot risk any similar incidents in the future.”

“So what now?” I asked, trying in vain to straighten out my glasses. 

“The attic!”, he declared in a determined tone, one which did not completely conceal his rather drained state. “I can set you up in a little trundle bed I’ve had stored up there for a fair while. Much more comfortable than the quilt nest in the cellar, I’d imagine. I sometimes take lunch in my chambers, so it’ll be easier to get food to you discreetly in the midday. If trouble arises, I’ll be right down here. The ladder access stems out of a trapdoor in my closet, so travel in and out will be easy enough. Not as well hidden as the cellar- nobody goes in  there \- but still hidden.” He rocked back on his heels, looking pleased with the prospect. “Any thoughts?” 

“It sounds suitable,” I affirmed as I climbed out of the bed, which seemed far taller than it had any right to be. After I got steady on my feet, he ushered me towards the closet, a space just barely large enough for me to spread my arms and touch both walls if I so chose. A glance towards the ceiling of the closet revealed a little handle installed above our heads. A tug on the handle by Gabriel opened a trapdoor of just under a meter in width, from which slid a telescoping wooden-rung ladder. 

“There’s another trapdoor in the hall, but this one is more private,” he explained as I mounted the ladder and began to climb.

The attic opened up into a long room of narrow width with a low ceiling that peaked in the middle, as though in a poor imitation of the ceiling of a cathedral. Worn wood beams braced the roof where two or three bird nests had settled in nooks. The space was illuminated by light shining through the slatted shutters of one window in the wall farthest from the trapdoor. Old bookshelves bearing dusty volumes and antique knickknacks lined the walls, pieces of furniture covered in sheets made themselves at home in the part of the room farthest from the ladder, and a dusty harpsichord of some sort was left in silence at the left side of the room. A space in the middle of the floor harbored the ladder and aforementioned trapdoor that allowed access to the hall, while the promised trundle bed was pushed up against the right wall. 

“Modest accommodations,” Gabriel commented, climbing up after me, “but better than the cellar, no? I would have offered it earlier, if not for the risk of someone using the hall access, but now is better than never, I suppose.” He rose to stand beside me, brushing dust off of his shirt. 

“It’s an improvement,” I agreed, stooping to read the spines of the books on one of the shelves. Gabriel began to go about the room, making an effort to straighten up what could be straightened.

“Feel free to explore,” he said, tugging a faded ivory sheet off of a chaise lounge. “I don’t know if the books are quite your taste- mostly Shakespeare, Marlowe, and the Greek classics- but they’re yours to peruse.” 

“Oh, I will,” I said, selecting _Oedipus the King_ and a leather-bound copy of  _ Macbeth  _ off the shelf. While I was nowhere near the fanatic that Gabriel had been in his youth, there was a reason that these works were considered timeless. “Though I would greatly appreciate some chemical texts,” I added as an afterthought. 

“If you’d suggest some titles, I could always pick up some. Also, there are candles and matches in one of the drawers in this desk,” Gabriel said, fanning off the piece of furniture as he mentioned it. 

“I’d put together a list, if I had any ink and paper,” I muttered, already leafing through the pages of the Scottish Play. 

“Second drawer for all that.” He pulled a sheet off of something out of sight, shaking it out with a whooshing sound. I turned to see—

A large cheval-glass mirror, tarnished with age, set in dark wood marred with nicks and dents. 

I used to watch the transformations in one just like it. I had looked on at them with a morbid sort of entertainment, peering out at my monstrously changing form through eyes stinging with tears, just to get a glimpse of what the pulling muscles and snapping bones looked like through the skin. I would drag myself to the glass in agony, squinting to see the way my face contorted and changed, crying out in pain and delight as I watched my features twist themselves into their alternate forms- 

But no longer. The face I saw in the mirror now was my new permanent reality. Its appearance in the glass, as though I was awaiting a transformation back into my other form, was just a ghost of what used to be.

“Cover it up again.” 

“What?” Gabriel turned to me, perplexed. 

“The cheval-glass. Cover it...please.”

The last word came out like a hiss. Gabriel flinched slightly- an involuntary motion that I had grown used to seeing on him- and tossed the sheet back over the mirror. 

“Thank you.”

He cleared his throat. 

“Well, I have work to attend to,” he said, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves, “But I will be returning soon, I estimate in two hours, from a meeting with a client. We can talk then, if you would like.”

“I’ll be fine,” I said, shaking out the quilt on the trundle bed. Gabriel paced to the ladder.

“If you need anything...Let me know.”

And he descended.

•••

I spent my two hours in solitude exploring the space- opening the drawers of the three or four little bedside tables that were exiled to up here, examining the little knickknacks and boxes on the bookshelves, and rummaging through boxes of old newspaper clippings and clothing long gone out of style. I persistently ignored the cheval-glass.  Macbeth  occupied my attention for approximately half an hour before I tossed it aside. The appearance of Banquo’s ghost- or hallucination, should one choose to interpret it as a sign of the title character’s growing madness- struck something uncomfortable within me. So instead, I began to search through a little envelope, also on the bookshelf, full of notes on hand-lined paper and other such scraps.

I recognized my own handwriting on a few of them. 

This, I realized, was a collection of letters and notes passed in our college days. Here was a message I had scrawled to Gabriel in our first year; a little request for a rendezvous in the evening. There, a little scribble of some fantastical creature clearly torn out of a margin. And here, clipped from a newspaper, was a photograph.

Myself, Gabriel, and Lanyon. 

We stood beneath a sprawling oak tree, behind which rose the ivy-covered walls of the school. One of Hastie’s arms rested on my shoulder while his other hand was settled upon Gabriel’s head. None of us smiled, of course, but the light in our eyes shone with an unmistakable joy. I remembered this afternoon well- Hastie’s rowing team had just done phenomenally. Rather than go out drinking with the others (that never was quite his idea of a good time), the three of us had wandered the grounds, toasted the victory in private, and stumbled upon a newspaper photographer who hadn’t yet managed to get any good shots of the team and still needed something to bring to the presses. The faces of a young Hastie Lanyon (“Anatomy student, age 21”) and Gabriel Utterson (“friend of the athlete”) gleamed with youthful vivacity from the weathered clipping.

We looked so happy.

_ And you ruined it. _

I...

_ Let Lanyon see a little too far into your life- your mind- your soul...far enough for him to never want to see your face again. Tried to act like you had never even known each other. Came crawling back to him as Hyde, and what did you do? Didn’t learn from your little lesson. Killed him. You should’ve known. _

I had warned him. He chose to stay, he chose to watch the transformation.

_He had no idea what was coming. How could he? You lured him in and smothered him with an ugly truth. It was your fault. And you can’t pin the blame on anyone else._

I know.

I put the picture back in the envelope.

•••

Gabriel returned when he said he would, knocking on the trapdoor to signal his arrival before ascending into the attic. 

“How have you been holding up?”, he asked, tossing a little bundle of dark blue fabric ahead of him as he emerged from the trapdoor.

“Well enough,”I said, feigning nonchalance as I sprawled across the trundle bed. “Certainly better than the cellar. It’s warmer up here, too.”

“I thought you’d appreciate that. I’m sorry I did not offer this space to you sooner,” he said, unwrapping the bundle to remove a large scone and an apple, both of which he passed to me, along with a sweetbread of some sort for himself. “And I had completely forgotten about the birds up here. I hope they aren’t too much of a bother.”

“Not at all,” I said, taking a bite out of the apple. “You had mentioned a meeting. What poor soul have you been attending to recently?” 

“Besides yourself,” he said with a twinkle, “My most recent project has been as a legal advisor to the family of a young woman whose half-brother had suffered several months of starvation and neglect in one of the factories in Soho. One fears he could have very well met his end like that poor young man in the Cooper case. I’ve been doing all I can, but they have several other men supplying advice. I wish them all the best.” 

“Neglect, you said?”

“Sadly, yes. The boy has been struggling with some issues of the mind, they allege, and was placed in one of the idiot wards of the Westminster St James union workhouse. There, he was beaten- he has scars to prove it- and deprived of food.” Gabriel’s calm composure twitched slightly with the barest flicker of anger. A rare expression. “I’ve met the boy. All the effort I supply to this case is for his benefit, and his alone. I’ve had half a mind to have words with his father for even allowing he and his mother to slip into their impoverished state, but one must hold one’s tongue.”

Abused for an ‘issue’ of the mind. The child’s story was seated uncomfortably close to my own fears. 

Perhaps if I hadn’t been born into a stable family, that boy’s story could have been my own. It shouldn’t be anyone’s. 

“If there’s ever been an expression I would damn, it would be that one,” I growled. “And it sounds like the one who truly deserved the lashes was that bloody father. Abandoning his child for...” I trailed off, gritting my teeth. 

“I agree with you,” Gabriel nodded, sitting on one of the old wicker chairs he had unveiled from the sheets. “Though it seems that many- uneducated and scholars alike- are not of our opinion.”

Lanyon’s reaction when I had first told him of my own disordered thoughts sprang to mind. He didn’t seem to grasp that these things, these thoughts, came without summons. 

_And instead pushed you away for the abnormality. A friend struggling with a madness never did fit into his ideas of a good life of study, did it? Rather than mesh into the puzzle, the incongruity had to be snipped away._

My eyes fell upon the blue bundle. 

Gabriel suddenly shifted erratically, then, correcting his movement, made an effort to discretely tug the bag closer to himself with the hopes that I would not notice. 

“What are you doing?”, I asked, eying the bundle with suspicion. Gabriel paused.

“Nothing,” he said casually, scooping the bundle into the safety of his lap.

“That does not appear to be nothing. And no one fails to be stealthy quite like you do, I’m afraid.” I rose and reached for the bundle. “May I see?”

“I do not believe so,” he managed.

“Come on,” I huffed, tugging at the blue fabric impulsively. “What’s in there that could be so awful as to-“ 

As I pulled, a newspaper slipped out of the bundle and hit the floor, splaying open like a dead bird with its wings spread.

Across the front:

** LETTER FOUND  on MP’S CORPSE **

NEW DEVELOPMENT IN CAREW CASEAND JEKYLL DISAPPEARANCE  
_Letter found on body of slaughtered MP connects missing man to murder suspect!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What’s that I hear knocking at the door? Impending disaster? 
> 
> Oh, the boys are in quite a pickle now.
> 
> Again- feel free to hit me with any critiques, comments, or concerns!


	7. The Newspaper and the Harpsichord - J/H

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carew’s letter, now made public, threatens to complicate the efforts to remain hidden. Meanwhile, Gabriel is doing his best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters narrated by Jekyll/Hyde? In a row?? It’s more likely than you think! 
> 
> I’m sorry that my posting doesn’t follow a schedule. I’ll just be throwing the latest bits and pieces of what I write into the void of the internet at random intervals until further notice. 
> 
> Quarantine tip: Stuck in the house? Chat with your emotional support lawyer/close friend/repressed crush as he plays the harpsichord!

_“A handwritten letter was discovered in the home of acclaimed chemist and pharmaceutical researcher Dr. Henry Jekyll, who was reported as missing on the morning of Wednesday the 14th. While this may not sound like a significant discovery on its own, the context is key. This letter was signed and supposedly penned by the late Sir Danvers Carew, the MP so viciously slaughtered in the street mere months ago. An anonymous source claims that the letter was in fact found on the body of the murdered MP by investigators the night of his death and then removed from police ownership sometime in the week after. The presence of a small bloodstain on the envelope supports this theory._

_The content of the letter itself is shocking, yet we have reprinted it in full below for the sake of public knowledge._

_ The letter reads as  follows:   
  
_

_ “Dear [NAME REDACTED], _

_I regret to inform you that I am writing with a most grievous reason in mind. I write to you now on behalf of your friend, one Dr. Henry Jekyll, out of concern for his well-being. What I am_ _about to transcribe is an account of a dreadful nature, one which curdles the blood in the veins and seems to stop the heart in its course. It chills me to think of it, yet it is my duty as an upstanding citizen to inform you, as you are so close to the good doctor. My statement is this: Dr Jekyll has gone mad, wholly and completely. This may_ _come as a great shock, as he has hidden his maladies from you and the rest of his associates quite well. Allow me to record the sorry tale of your friend below._

_It was several months ago that your friend’s behavior became more erratic; word amongst some men of society was that his strange and sometimes solitary behaviour was due to illness or exhaustion from overwork. Naturally, I became concerned. In the passing month, I inquired amongst his fellows, learning of his peculiarities from conversations with his colleagues. I concluded that his strange behaviours as of late were, in fact, due to a physical illness. Oh, how wrong I was! I_ _discovered this horrid mistake when I followed the doctor out of a sermon one Sunday two months ago. It was behind the cathedral that I saw a sight that chilled me to my very bones: Jekyll performed an act of chemical self-experimentation that left him writhing in pain and contorted his features beyond recognition. This wording does not do its horror justice; it twisted at his body and doubtlessly his mind, and appeared to be_ _quite agonizing. I cannot write further detail here or even think of it for very long, too great is the terror and disgust attatched to that memory. However, the detail that leaves me shaken is this: this seemed to be a routine act, one which he enjoyed in a warped sort of way, judging by the calm and regular manner in which he mixed and swallowed the substance that changed him so. I removed myself from his presence- he did not see me- and retreated to my home to think. Self-experimentation! And a relish for the pain it brought! This may not declare him to be mad, it is true. However, the words he spoke while doubled over in the agony of the drug struck me to my core and as of now still echo within my mind. He rambled like a madman, crying out about “a voice” growing “louder” and “out of control”, wondering aloud “when it would stop”, conversing with thin air before digging his nails into his arms until blood was drawn and collapsing to the ground, shaking violently. He fell silent as the chemical agony lost its power before turning those hateful nails upon his own face. After several moments of erratic pacing and muttering, he turned and left in the other direction, greatly changed in appearance, altered and completely unrecognizable._

_If you still do not believe that these are signs of a growing madness, your opinions may change should you know the activities he pursues while in his altered form, the one so ghastly that it struck terror into my very soul. Under the influence of this drug, your friend has led a double life- one in which he has been observed to languish in opium dens, commit unprompted acts of cruelty, and wreak havoc while in chemical disguise. This I discovered through the observations of my own friends and_ _their acquaintances. For two months I have remained quiet on this issue. You may think that this madness is my own; I assure you that it is not, which is why this letter will be delivered jointly by myself and your friend by hand. You may interrogate him further, for I feel that his instability goes beyond what I had witnessed behind that house of God. If my fears are true- that this “voice” he describes, his reckless behaviour of self-experimentation, and the double life he leads while in this chemically altered state are in fact hallmarks of instability- then the good doctor may have to be committed (that is, sent to an asylum institution) for the safety of himself and others. If not, you at least ought to know of the behaviour and state of your companion. It would not be fair for you to be unaware that you have been breaking bread with a madman._

_ Your friend, _

_ Sir Danvers Carew, MP _

_ Post-script: Should this letter find you in a circumstance where you cannot personally ask your friend any questions that may come to mind, I advise that you turn to those around you to ask what they know of one Mr. Edward Hyde. The details provided by such inquiries may prove useful.” _

_ END OF TRANSCRIPT  _

_ It has been theorized that the killer, the very same Mr Hyde mentioned in the letter’s post-script, may have committed his ghastly crime in an effort to prevent the letter from reaching its intended destination, and possibly have done away with the missing Dr Jekyll for similarly sinister purposes. The connection between Mr Hyde and the missing doctor remains unknown, as does the true nature of the allegations against Dr Jekyll’s behaviour and sanity.” _

•••

_ No no no no no- _

A ghastly cry escaped from my mouth as I tore the paper clean in two. 

“They know- they all know-!”

Gabriel rushed to me as I pressed my hands to my face in anguish. I wanted to scream, to lash out, to do something...

_ They know, they know, they know- _

“Shh, shh. They don’t know that Jekyll is Hyde, they don’t know any real details,” he managed, taking my wrists in his hands. I was only barely able to stop myself from tearing my hands away violently. I felt like I was going to choke, shaking with terror and anger at the rapidly collapsing situation.

_ They’ll join the connections between Jekyll and Hyde eventually, they’ll know what you did, you killed Carew, did this to yourself, you’re mad, they know you’re mad, they know, they know, they know... _

“Everyone knows...And now there’s another connection, they’ll find me, they’ll find the truth...” It was growing increasingly difficult to breathe. Gabriel pulled me forwards, meeting my eyes.

“We’ll find our way through this,” he said, “Nothing needs to change. We’ll stick to our routine, I’ll get the inheritance, and you’ll flee the country. The plan is still good.”

“I just...” I couldn’t speak. The words refused to string themselves together. Had I a pen and paper, I could have written it down, but now? Now I was reduced to a little animal making quiet, strangled gasps, staring into his eyes mutely. 

Gabriel embraced me. 

It was very brief and very sudden. He simply held me...and then let go. Only a moment of warmth. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d actually been embraced. 

He shuddered slightly as he pulled away before brushing imaginary dust off of his waistcoat. It was obvious that the instinctive repulsion that this form carried with it still had some affect on him. Not to mention that he rarely, if ever, gave in to displays of emotion such as this.

“I can stay for a moment if you need me to,” he said quietly.

“...That would do well.”

•••

He stayed for just under an hour or so before descending to dispel the concerns of any servants who may have noticed his sudden absence. We talked of little things- I could not bear to continue to speak of the letter without again falling into that wordless state as I realized that there was nothing that I could do. It was not only the situation itself that paralyzed me; I had been viciously efficient while under pressure (and even while in fear for my life) as Hyde in the past. It was the fact that I was here, stuck in theattic, powerlessly watching as my circumstances spiraled rapidly out of my control that terrified me so. I had lost control of many things; my body, my mind, my entire life were all outside of the realm of what I could change now. I was trapped in this form, in this attic, with my own thoughts and fears for company, and the only beacon of escape shown from the other side of a three-month gap in which so many uncertainties lay. So Gabriel and I spoke of inconsequential things: of Shakespeare and uni and the books he was reading. I also requested more laudanum. He promised to bring me some in the evening. I consented to this, as it was clear that he would not change his stance, though I craved oblivion  now.

When he descended, I uncovered the cheval-glass.

•••

I spent hours staring into it, lost in thought.

No longer did I feel any joy upon seeing this horrible face and figure in the glass; the thrill of being Hyde had vanished long ago in the moment when this identity became more of a prison than a source of release.

My unchanged eyes, still as grey as they had been in my original form, seemed to exist only to taunt me.

•••

Gabriel finally returned in the late evening, as though he were trading places with the rays of fading sunlight that slipped through the slats of the shutters. He brought food with him, which I ate in silence, and a heavy blanket for the night ahead. The early spring chill lingered in the air like the heavy London fog, the cool air threatening to turn into a vicious bite once night had fallen. As he had promised, Utterson brought the bottle of laudanum, tucked away in his pocket. As soon as I had finished gulping down my meal, I snatched up my glass and held my hand out expectantly. He sighed.

“I was hoping to keep you coherent for a little while longer,” he said.

“I don’t enjoy being coherent,” I muttered, “It only makes this difficult situation harder to bear.”

“You cannot sleep all through the coming months, nor drug yourself into a stupor. And frankly,” he added, “I wish you didn’t feel like you had to.”

“You aren’t alone in that,” I said quietly, “But I need it. Especially now. I cannot bear this- any of this- without something to ease it.” 

Gabriel paced away from me, seemingly lost in thought, before leaning up against the old harpsichord. 

“I didn’t even know you played,” I mused aloud in reference to the dusty instrument.

“Hm?”

“Harpsichord, I mean. It’s not as fashionable as it used to be. I’d never really envisioned you to be much of a musician, more of a theatrical type in terms of creative outlet, and you gave up the theater very long ago.”

“I once played often, actually. I used to plod about on my family’s grand piano as a boy,” he said, with the upturn in inflection that was as close to a chuckle as one could ever summon from him, “and I dabbled in viola occasionally. I still remember much of it.”

“Play something,” I said, laying back on the trundle bed and staring up at the rafters.

“Pardon?”

“You could play something. If you’d like to.”

“Didn’t you once play the piano?”, he asked, brushing some dust off of the harpsichord. I sat up.

“Is that supposed to be some sort of invitation for  _ me  _ to play?”, I asked, sitting up. 

“It can be an invitation if you want it to be,” he said. I shook my head.

“I haven’t played in so long. I was always more inclined to spend my free time among my books. And I was never all that good,” I mumbled dismissively. “Besides, I’ve never played harpsichord- using two keyboard manuals may throw me off. And it’s a semitone lower, which would be jarring.” 

“You seem to know what you’re about,” commented Gabriel, pulling up a stool from the corner. “I’d be open to helping you adjust.” He struck a chord on the manual farthest from him before making a little “tsk” sound and shaking his head disapprovingly.

“Rather out of tune,” he explained. “It’s an old instrument, and dreadfully out of fashion. I keep it about because it had been my mother’s. She’d bought it from a theater where it was used for accompaniments.” He played a little trill, as though testing out the instrument. “I believe the theater in question replaced it with a piano. I haven’t touched a piano, or this thing, in years. How long has it been since you played last?” 

“I actually sold my piano years ago,” I said. “I’m years out of practice. Not that I played much to begin with. And I never played in front of people.” 

“Not even for duet pieces?”

“I’ve...never played a piece for four hands,” I muttered, “I wasn’t even certain I had anyone I could play one with.”

“Nor I,” he said.

He dabbled a little more, playing a couple of bars of Bach, before falling silent. 

“Well, it’s going to be growing late soon,” he said, “And I was hoping to do a little reading before turning in.”

“And my laudanum?”

“Yes,” he sighed, “of course.”  
  


•••

As I drifted into a sea of oblivion, I was dimly aware that Gabriel had begun to play again, softly calling forth a melody I couldn’t quite recognize.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *in a whisper* Confession: I’m still improvising! I still do t know what I’m doing! I’m as lost as you are!
> 
> Also- I’m considering creating an edited version written in the third person once I’ve finished the original, as I’ve heard that many fic readers prefer third person POV to first. This version isn’t going anywhere, but it might just get some company. If you have any thoughts on this, feel free to let me know!


End file.
